


All forms

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Banter, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Frustrated John Watson, Idiots in Love, John is a bit of a tease, Light Spanking, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Smut, Not Beta Read, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is Wanton, Sherlock's Violin, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, defensive Sherlock, sherlock likes kissing, very mild smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: How to approach and deal with that tension though, that was the question. What the bloody hell should he actually do about this?—————This story is an entry for the June #Always1895 fic prompt challenge—the theme: cuddling!





	All forms

**Author's Note:**

> ...I don't know what this is.  
>  I'm losing my touch. My muse has fled. Life is hard. Motivation and inspiration are really difficult to come by. I find myself unhappy too frequently. And it's HOT here in the UK, way too hot.
> 
> Sorry in advance!

 

John sighed quietly and looked over the newspaper at Sherlock’s tense figure at the window, violin and bow in hand, curly head facing away. He’d been standing in the same spot for several hours. He didn’t play, he didn’t talk, and he didn’t move. John was sure that for a few moments, he even stopped breathing. There wasn’t much of a hint as to why, as there normally wasn’t when it came to Sherlock and his odd eccentricities and moods, but John could see the tension in the man’s frame, in his shoulders and jaw especially. The man almost radiated coiled anxiety.

How to approach and deal with that tension though, that was the question. What the bloody hell should he actually do about this?

Usually when Sherlock was blatantly in a sulk or a brooding pout of some kind, John left the flat for a while – unless of course it was a danger night, in which he purposefully and stubbornly remained regardless of what Sherlock threw his way – though it was getting a tiny bit ridiculous. All right, a lot ridiculous. Running away was not something John enjoyed doing, even though it seemed like the best way to defuse the situation. He never ran from anything, he met things head on. He thought on his feet, he prepared himself, and he ran in to get the risk, the job, neutralised. He was constantly moving toward some sort of peril and this should be no exception.

Closing and folding the newspaper, putting it aside, John pushed to his feet and went toward his stoic, statue-like friend, “Sherlock?” he tried, unsurprisingly getting nothing in return. “Sherlock, look, obviously something is wrong and I know you won’t bleeding tell me, because you _never_ do, you just clam up and play your violin or curl up on the sofa, but...if there is anything I can do to help then I _will_ do it.”

As before, he received no reaction to his words and John sighed again, loudly, crossing his arms. He tried to think back to when Sherlock had been less closed off and standoffish, to figure out what might have happened to cause the behaviour, to no avail. The day before had been fine, normal even, and there hadn’t been even a sniff of an issue as far as John could remember. They had spent most of the day separate whilst in the same space, as they were prone to do, only to then come fully together near the end of the day. John had forced Sherlock to watch a film with him, one Sherlock had scoffed and muttered his way through, and then they’d parted for the night. The day before that hadn’t been much different, nor the one before that.

John frowned, at a loss, and reached out to touch the man’s elbow. Sherlock remained where he was, unmoving, violin and bow still cradled in his hands. It was almost scary how still he was. Definitely worrying. Was it something John had done or said? Sherlock could be sensitive to some things while clueless with others, so it was often a mystery, or an aggravating adventure, finding out what the root cause of his tantrums were.

“Sherlock...come on. What’s wrong?” John attempted again, stepping closer to get a better view of Sherlock’s face. “Just _talk_ to me. Did something happen? Did...someone _say_ something? Did you find something? Did...I don’t know...a case you thought was interesting turn out to be a pile of shit? I know that’s happened more times than you’d like-- You haven’t moved from this spot in at least four hours, Sherlock. _Four hours_. You’ve not had anything to drink or eat or...gone to the _bathroom_ for Christ’s sake!”

Sherlock’s gaze was distant and the muscle in his jaw was jumping, expression blank and face like sculpted marble. John clicked his fingers inches from his elegant nose and then clapped loudly at the nearest ear, impressed when Sherlock didn’t flinch or blink. It was getting more worrying by the second. John hadn’t really seen Sherlock like this really, had only seen him withdrawn into himself, into his mind, while on the sofa, perched on his chair, or waving his hands around at a crime scene. This was new.

“If you don’t respond within the next _five_ seconds, I’m going to pinch you. Hard. On the ear,” John warned. “1...2...” He carefully, but quickly, took the violin and bow from his hands, finding Sherlock’s grasp oddly lax considering the fixed position. Plopping them on Sherlock’s chair, John then stepped closer still and faced him. “3...4... _5_ – Right. You asked for it.” Reaching out, John took Sherlock’s right ear between his index finger and thumb, trying not to be surprised at how warm and soft and delicate it felt, and pinched. Pinched and pulled and twisted.

It took another few seconds before Sherlock’s vacant mask finally cracked. He frowned, jaw dropping in discomfort and twitched, writhing to escape, and swatting John’s hand away, “Ow!-- _John_! What are you--?” his disgruntled exclamation, though it had begun quite strongly, was short-lived, as his legs unlocked from their stiffened positions. He stumbled aside, with a wince he wasn’t quick enough to suppress, and threw out his arms, flailing to keep himself upright. Several papers and documents that had been messily arranged on the desk nearby, were knocked to the floor in a noisy flutter.

“Yeah. Good. I’m _glad_ you’re feeling it - _Four_ hours, Sherlock,” John told him, stepping forward to stabilise the ludicrous man and usher him to the sofa. “ _Sit_. Now, are you going to tell me what the hell that just was? What you were _doing_?”

“ _Thinking_!” Sherlock growled. “Obviously.”

“About?”

“Never you mind, what about,” Sherlock shot back sullenly, rubbing his knees and then cupping his reddened ear.

John wasn’t going to let it go, not after seeing the look on Sherlock’s face, not when he hadn’t once played his cradled violin, “It’s a... _personal_ matter then.”

Shooting him a scowl, Sherlock sneered, “ _Is_ it now, and how exactly did you deduce that?”

“Huh. Probably something _sentimental_ too, judging by _that_ response,” John added, just to see the scowl deepen. Anything was better than the blankness. “What happened? What brought it on?--And don’t say ‘ _nothing_ ’ as it’s clear that _something_ did.”

“What does it _matter_?” Sherlock countered instead of answering.

“Because _you_ matter, you pillock!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and then quickly narrowed again, “Oh. I see. You reprimand me for _my_ arrogance and yet you display almost the exact same pomposity! - It isn’t about _you_.”

“I didn’t say it was,” John retorted.

“You were _thinking_ it.”

John tried not to let it show that, yes, he was, of course he was, and stepped forward, standing an inch from Sherlock’s knees and feet to focus the madman’s attention, “Then what _does_ it have to do with?” he asked, pointing at Sherlock’s suddenly pinched and contorted expression. “And don’t give me _that face_ —You pry into my life, into my actions, into my very _thoughts_ , all the time.”

“It isn’t any fault of _mine_ that you’re so easy to read!”

Counting back from ten, John took a deep, long breath in, and then let it out, staring down at Sherlock in determination, “Does it have to do with a case gone awry?”

“No.”

“Were you...trying to think of some sheet of music that you thought you had tucked away in that mind of yours, but couldn’t--”

“ _No_.”

“Did Mycroft say something to rile you up?”

“ _No_ – John, I am not sitting here while you try to play twenty questions. I was merely thinking, something I am prone to do quite frequently. What I was thinking, is of no concern of yours,” Sherlock told him, trying and failing to get back up onto his legs. Dropping heavily back down onto the seat he pursed his lips, face crumpled in aggravation and, if John didn’t know any better, embarrassment, and then tried again.

This time, when Sherlock pushed up onto his buckling, shaking legs, he tipped forward as he dropped and fell face first into John’s stomach, catching himself with a grasp of John’s waist. It winded John, knocking him into a slight rock on his heels, and he reflectively touched his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders to steady and support both himself, and his infuriating flatmate. It was undignified and absurd, forcing a short huff of laughter from him. The sound made Sherlock’s tense shoulders even tenser.

It was rare to see Sherlock so clumsy and incredibly amusing when his ‘transport’ made itself known. When Sherlock was shown to be every bit a normal, boring, delicate human. John grinned down at him, enjoying the moment. He was allowed to wallow and silently gloat, especially since Sherlock made it a daily event to do the same to John. The gloating, anyway. The man loved to gloat, both silently and verbally.

The amusement soon fizzled and turned instead to confusion when Sherlock didn’t lean back or make a move to pull away. His face remained pressed to John’s stomach, brow and nose two warm points of pushing contact against his abdomen, and each exhale sent a hot bloom through the fabric of his jumper and shirt. Had he fallen asleep?

“Um...you all right?” John gently enquired, frowning. “Sherlock?”

Slowly, as if somehow unsure of himself, something he hardly ever was, Sherlock tilted his head to peer up at John over his brow. He didn’t speak but his face held a tight grimace that was half expectant and half nervous. John cocked his head in response, lifting his eyebrows, waiting for an answer or possibly, knowing Sherlock, a snide remark, yet none came and Sherlock continued to stare up at him. The muscle in his jaw began to jump again and John looked at it, then at Sherlock’s tightly pressed mouth.

John adjusted his stance, “What?” he asked, patting Sherlock’s left shoulder. “What is it? - I _did_ say that you’ve been standing for hours, Sherlock. What did you _think_ would happen if you tried to stand? Just give your legs a rest for a bit, yeah?”

Giving his shoulder another pat, John smiled, trying to be reassuring, yet Sherlock stayed in place, staring at him until something shifted in John’s mind. Curious, and a little cautious, John slid his hand up to gently cup Sherlock’s nape, lifting his brow in silent question. He got his answer in the fluttering of Sherlock’s eyelids and paused for a moment, trying to process what exactly was going on between them and what he had actually asked and what Sherlock’s response really, truly, meant.

They didn’t do this. It wasn’t that John hadn’t thought about it, of course, because they were close and the bond between them was stronger than anything John had ever had with another person. Bar his family, he supposed, in some way or another. He’d had many kinds of relationships and friendships, yet nothing lived up to what he shared with Sherlock. Nothing. The knowledge of that, of admitting it to himself, had everything he’d ever thought or wanted toppling upon the cusp of terrifying

“...This is...this is what you’ve been thinking about?” John asked tentatively. “All this fuss, just because you wanted some _affection_ \--?”

“No!” Sherlock cut in roughly, voice an abrupt crackling rumble. “For God’s sake-- I _love_ you!”

Blinking, John let the words filter through his mind for a moment and then slowly crouched down to be at head level, not sure what make of the clenching of his gut when Sherlock avoided eye contact, “Hey...look at me. _Look_ at me, Sherlock. I...uh...we’re both pretty rubbish at this kind of stuff, me more than you, so bear with me...” He glanced around, eyes jumping from the spot Sherlock had been standing, to the violin on his chair, and then at the sky outside the windows. How had it suddenly come to this? “You _have_ to know that...that...I love you too, right?” At Sherlock’s sudden wide-eyed and searching gaze, John nodded, cleared his throat, and huffed. “Course I do, you idiot. We’re...well...we...we’re _us_ and...we’ve saved each other’s lives. A lot. So, there’s no question about it, really. None at all—”

Without warning, Sherlock took John’s head in his hands and surged forward for a very warm, very real, and very shaky kiss. Never in all the time he’d known and lived with Sherlock Holmes, did John expect such a response. It was shocking, befuddling, insane, and every bit as dizzying as a kiss bestowed by the extraordinary man should be. Sherlock pulled back, however, with a look of mortification and dread when John didn’t respond in kind, his mouth down-turning in a deep, devastating grimace. He instantly recoiled, eyes darting as he snatched his hands away as if scorched, and John followed him, like he always had.

“ _Hey_ , no, wait,” John breathed, grabbing Sherlock by the arms to keep him in place. He watched in horror as Sherlock’s expression shuttered and shook his head, bullying his knee onto the edge of the sofa between the man’s long legs to push nearer. “ _No_. No, don’t you _dare_ do that. Don’t, Sherlock. _Don’t_. Just...just _wait_.”

“It’s not the same. You don’t feel the _same_ ,” Sherlock intoned, eyes dulling. “I should have known better, really. - Why didn’t you just let me be, like you usually do? Why didn’t you just give up trying and leave me _alone_?─ _How_ did you know? _Why_ now? You were _never_ this astute before...”

Frowning, John shook his head again, “ _Stop it_ , Sherlock. Stop it and...come here,” he whispered, pulling Sherlock in for an awkward, contorted embrace. Sherlock was limp in his grasp but he didn’t fight to get away or draw back and for that, John was grateful. He cradled the back of Sherlock’s skull and pressed their cheeks together, squeezing the thick, soft curls between his fingers. “When did... _this_...start? - I mean, when did you…?”

“Stupid question.”

“Right, right...” John nodded, hating how his back and knee was already beginning to ache from their odd positioning. He left it a few minutes more and then pulled back, straightening up. At Sherlock’s sluggish blink John dropped down beside him and swung his arm about his shoulders, hauling the man in for a well deserved cuddle. Something he never thought he’d be doing with Sherlock. At all. Ever. “Is this, um, this okay?”

Sherlock sighed stiffly, “I fail to see the point to this or any reason to answer your unnecessary questions,” he complained in a monotone, which only prompted John to squeeze him tighter.

“...You’re an idiot, you know,” John told the wilted body in his arms. “And a _liar_.”

Stiffening at that, Sherlock lifted his head, meeting John’s calm gaze with a glower, “You thinks so, do you?”

“Oh yeah,” John replied casually and shrugged when he continued, tugging Sherlock into his side as much as he could. “You _did_ say that what you were thinking about had nothing to do with me. Evidently, it _did_.”

“No.”

“Uh, _yeah_.”

“ _No_.”

“Sherlock, you _just_ said that--”

“I was thinking about _us_ , not you. I was thinking about the future. I was thinking about... _everything_. All at once,” Sherlock told him defeatedly.

“...Huh. I see,” John mumbled, not happy about the downtrodden expression on Sherlock’s face, “but there’s little point to that. If _anything_ is unnecessary, it’s _that_.” All at once, Sherlock glared, but John rubbed his back, his side, trying to placate him. “I just mean, that, _well_ , you can’t know what will happen before it happens. Not with things like this. Not when humans and their pesky feelings are involved. - It’s all guesswork, and you _hate_ that.”

Sherlock scowled in reaction, “There are facts to--”

“Based on you just... _guessing_.”

“I don’t guess.”

“You do a bit.”

“I _never_ guess!”

John shifted and lifted his brows, but didn’t carry on the argument, he didn’t have the patience for it, “Anyhow,” he sighed, “everything is _fine_. Really. I...I meant what I said to you.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically.

“You just...surprised me,” John explained, flushing and then giving a short puff of laughter, “something you often do, I’ll admit. You’re forever surprising me. _Amaz_ _ing_ me. - My brain doesn’t work as fast as yours does, remember? You need to give me a little more time to...process things.” He drew one hand down Sherlock’s arm and took up his spidery, mesmerising, pale fingers, blemished from violin playing, experiment crafting, and very faintly tinged with ink for some reason. John looked at them, stroking each digit individually, and then smoothed his thumb across every nail. “I...uh...I’ve, _you know_ , for a while now. All forms of it too, I think.”

Sherlock, who was observing the movement of John’s hand on his own with lidded eyes, swallowed, furrowed his brow, and then let out a soft exhalation, “All forms...”

“Yeah. Yes. Pretty much,” John told him, lacing their fingers together with a small cough. “So, um, as I said. _It’s fine_. Glad we...got it all out in the open. Glad you took the time to actually... _think_ about it. Means it meant enough for you to try and see every available option, what might have happened or could have happened, and what that means for us in the future.” He couldn’t suppress the tic of a smirk from growing on his face. “Even if it _was_ all just guesswork – Forcing facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts─”

“Shut it,” Sherlock snapped, but John saw his mouth twist upwards, and after a second or two of silence, Sherlock turned his head very slightly, tucking it up under John’s chin. “Tell _me_ then. Tell me what this means for the future? What does it _change_? What might...happen once things go wrong? Because they ultimately _will_. We both have bad track records when it comes to this.”

John rolled his eyes, though his heart was hammering at Sherlock’s implications, “Let’s just...leave that, all right? At least for now. Nothing much has to change. Just what _needs_ to, what we...we _want_ to. - We’re like...everyone else, Sherlock. No one knows what will happen. But the risk is sometimes worth it. For the right person.” It was easier to talk to him when John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, feeling utterly lost yet confident in the same instance, the juxtaposition as jarring as it was thrilling. They were a paradox, because life was a paradox. “And we like a bit of risk, don’t we?”

Sherlock hummed, “Yes, I suppose that much is unquestionable.”

John nodded with a sudden hilarious urge. He glanced quickly down at where Sherlock’s head was cushioned on his chest, his hair tickling the skin of John’s throat, and bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing. “Definitely... _sweetheart_.”

Although Sherlock wasn’t moving, John still felt him go impossibly more immobile and pressed his lips to stop the smile crawling across his face, “What...did you just say?” Sherlock rumbled.

“Hm? Just trying something out,” John replied, thankful his voice came out casual despite the bubble of hysterical laughter that wanted to make itself known. “Not a fan?”

“ _No_.”

“Don’t like pet names?” John asked innocently. “Or was it just ‘sweetheart’ you didn’t like? - What about Sweetie?”

Sherlock made a throaty sound of disgust, “No.”

“Love?”

“ _Mrs Hudson_ calls me love,” Sherlock retorted.

“Darling.”

“God, no.”

John thought for a moment and rubbed his chin into the dense coils atop Sherlock’s head, “Snugglebug?”

“Disgusting.”

“Honey?”

“I _eat_ honey.”

John couldn’t stop a chuckle at that, “What about handsome, beautiful, sexy?” he suggested in amusement, finding this odd game of theirs thoroughly entertaining. “Babe? Blue eyes? Cheekbones?--”

Sherlock sighed and lifted his head to give John a narrowed look, a single eyebrow arched, “By that logic I should call you _Short_ _y_ ,” he said.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” John replied, automatically bristling, “Posh boy.”

“Pleb.”

John lifted his brow and chin, “Toff.”

“Prat,” Sherlock countered with a deep, snorting chortle and a challenging gleam in his gaze.

“Git.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, smiling, “Buffoon.”

“Prick.”

“Wazzock--”

“Stop finding different ways to call me an idiot,” John protested with a laugh of his own. “Ponce.”

“Mug,” Sherlock replied before John released his hand to give his buttock and the top of his thigh a sharp, stinging slap. Sherlock jolted with an owlish blink at the action, clearly not expecting it, and John grinned back at him, drumming his fingers up the man’s rump with a daring lift of his eyebrows. For a moment, Sherlock merely gaped at John in response, but then his mouth twitched. “...Berk.”

“You’re asking for it,” John told him with a small tap at the curve of Sherlock’s bum.

“...Div,” Sherlock said within a husky laugh as he started squirming to try and get out of John’s arms, out of his reach. He almost made it, leaning halfway off the sofa, lurching in the direction of his chair, but John grabbed him and wrenched him back, swinging him face down over his lap with a grunt.

John held Sherlock down by the back of his neck gently and smacked his other hand down on the man’s backside, watching him buck, “Should have done this ages ago – In fact, you should have had your bottom spanked _years_ back! You’ve been too spoiled for too long.”

Sherlock huffed, “I didn’t know you were into corporal punishment. Isn’t that a bit ‘not good?’”

“Not when it comes to you. You _definitely_ deserve it,” John replied lightly, tapping just under both buttocks. Sherlock’s bottom was as plump and toned as it looked, and John had looked, quite a lot. Hard not to when the man constantly pranced around in snugly fitted trousers, silken pyjamas bottoms, and a tightly wrapped sheet.

“Knobhead.”

John pursed his mouth to stifle his impulsive chuckle and smacked Sherlock’s backside again, a little harder this time, finding the entire situation absurd. He was spanking Sherlock’s arse. Things had been awkward between them moments before, the tension thick enough to almost touch, and now he had Sherlock across his knees. Something he had actually thought about doing more than once. The man often behaved like a spoiled, overgrown child, after all.

“Any more slang words for ‘idiot?’” John questioned, ruffling the smaller curls at Sherlock’s strangely adorable nape.

“...Can I use ones you’ve said already?”

Twirling a soft, baby curl around his finger, John shrugged, “If you want to be unimaginative, sure.”

“Dunce.”

John smacked higher up, knocking into Sherlock’s coccyx, and forced out a gasping harrumph, “Any more?”

Shifting into a more comfortable position, Sherlock glanced up at him from the corner of his eyes, “Imbecile—” A very hard, very loud smack made his breath hitch and Sherlock hissed through his teeth, arching his back. “ _Ow_! God, John, that one hurt!”

“ _Oh_ , did it?” John asked nonchalantly, sending Sherlock’s dull glare a wide smile. “ _Good_!” When Sherlock’s glare sharpened, John chuckled and gave his bum a few strong open handed smacks. “All the better to sooth you afterwards.”

“...What are you going to do? _Kiss_ it better?” Sherlock snorted, his haughty, sarcastic expression dropping from his face when John gave the waistband of his trousers a thoughtful tug. He made sure to pull it up as high as it could go to push and waft air down over the reddened skin beyond that John could just about make out, and smirked at the goosebumps he saw that rushed up Sherlock’s back in response. “You’d _willingly_ kiss my--”

John slapped his hand down again in a series of short bursts, shocking Sherlock into silence, and then couldn’t help but giggle at the madness of it all. How had this played out in the last few minutes? It was getting a little too compelling. “I already do that on a daily basis,” he pointed out, “or so people say.”

Sherlock blinked and then frowned, “What people?”

“I’m _constantly_ praising you and apologising for you and following you around,” John added, “grabbing pens for you, fetching your phone from the pocket of a jacket you’re actively wearing, taking a taxi halfway across London just because of one little text from you--”

“Yes, yes, all right, I _get it_.”

“--make your tea, get your food, clean up after you, put up with your whining, let you get away with using my laptop even though you have your _own_ and really, you don’t need mine for the things that you use it for─”

Sherlock sighed loudly and pushed up in annoyance, covering John’s mouth with his own, just for a second, “Shut up,” he mumbled. “Idiot.”

“...If that was meant to be an apology for being a jumped up dick, you did it wrong,” John said, grinning and quickly giving his backside another smack. “Speaking of doing things for you, you actually _do_ need to eat. And drink.” Standing, John took Sherlock’s hand to insist he do the same and walked him slowly into the kitchen, making sure he didn’t stumble.

It was bizarre, but nice, having Sherlock’s hand in his as they crossed the threshold together, physically linked instead of just figuratively, and although Sherlock was still slightly unsure, cautious, and continued to frown in thought until the top of his nose creased, he didn’t shut down again or shut John out. John hated when Sherlock would purposely ignore him. As much as the man got on his nerves and as much as John did enjoy some downtime from him, he did, in the end, always end up missing him. He had often stupidly pined for Sherlock even though he was only a few feet away in the same room.

John still couldn’t believe what had happened, what had been said, and his lips still tingled from Sherlock’s kisses. Sherlock had kissed him. Twice. John wasn’t sure how many people had been given that opportunity or how many of them had been real, and not some ploy on Sherlock’s part, but he still felt flattered, honoured, and very fortunate to have experienced it. Sherlock had chosen him and no one else.

“Sandwiches will do, I think,” John muttered aloud, stroking across Sherlock’s knuckles as he reached for the bread with his other hand. “And a glass of milk.” He checked that both things would be indeed be digested with a quick glance, hopefully without much complaint, and Sherlock nodded with a huff. “Good lad.”

“And a big _hell n_ _o_ to that one as well,” Sherlock told him with a knowing look.

John snorted, “There’s got to be something you like?”

“Yes. My _name_.”

“I say that _way_ too much for it to be an endearment,” John pointed out, letting Sherlock’s hand go to start on the sandwiches properly, taking out cheese, tomatoes, lettuce and ham. Thankfully Sherlock wasn’t that fussy and there was, shockingly, actual edible food in for once. He’d have to give Mrs Hudson a visit to thank her, because it had clearly been her who had stocked the fridge.

“I like the way you say it,” Sherlock shrugged.

“What about bumblebee? That’s cute. And you like bees, don’t you? You _must_ do. You spent a whole day caring for one.”

Sherlock pulled a face, “Perhaps I should call _you_ bumblebee, instead?”

John smirked faintly, “If this is about my new jumper, you _love_ it, I know you do. I saw the way you were eyeing it.”

“With revulsion, yes.”

“You _adore_ it. It’s soft. You like soft things, what with your sensitive skin and all – Now, how about beloved for an endearment? Dearest? _Lover boy_?”

Sherlock covered his ears with a drawn out, fussing snarl, “ _Stop_!” he exclaimed. “John, this is stupid.”

“My gorgeous toy boy--”

“ _What_?--I’m not _that_ much younger than you, John, I can’t be your ‘toy boy.’”

“--My swain, my beau, mon amour!” John continued, proud to have remembered at least some French from school, even if it was the most basic of phrases.

“Tais-toi. Imbécile,” Sherlock replied effortlessly with a sharp, mocking smile. A smile that John knocked off his face with a whipping slap to his backside. The sound of the hit echoed through the kitchen and Sherlock went up on his toes for a moment, grimacing. “ _Ow_. - Are you going to smack me every time now?”

John beamed at him, cutting the sandwiches into neat squares, “ _Oh yes_.”

“This relationship is abusive,” Sherlock mumbled, swaying into John’s side without a fight when John hooked an arm around his waist to bring him close. The heat of him seeped deliciously through John’s clothing, soothing as much as it was enticing, and he watched Sherlock watch him as John finished off the small meal. Sherlock took the plate when John offered it up and moved to the kitchen table. “Do I get anything if I _don’t_ insult you?”

“Only one way to find that out,” John replied and poured him a large glass of milk, putting it on a coaster nearby for him. Taking up one of the other chairs, John placed it right beside Sherlock and sat down, curling his arm back around the slim waist of his. He needed to eat more. John could feel almost every rib with one brush of his fingers. “Eat up buttercup.”

Sherlock paused mid-bite, “I hate buttercups.”

“Snowdrop?”

“No – If you’re going to call me any sort of flower, at least call me an interesting one. A _useful_ one. Like Foxglove.”

“Foxglove?” John repeated in exasperated amusement. “The poisonous flower. - Why not just call you Deadly nightshade, for God’s sake?”

Sherlock smiled out the side of his mouth in reaction and continued to eat for a few moments, eyes flicking to John every three seconds, “I... like how you run.”

Bemused, John nodded very slowly, caressing Sherlock’s side with his knuckles, “...Okay?”

“And fight. And shoot – And that thing your hair does when you wake up every morning,” Sherlock said with an animated wave of his hands, gesturing to John without looking and almost poking him in the eye and spraying him with bread crumbs at the same time. “Your face is interesting too, of course. Thought so from the start. Expressive yet blank. Open yet closed off. I enjoy watching it shift and transform, seeing the emotions and thoughts ripple and die, only to be reborn again, different but the same. I watch you. _Always_. Doing everything.”

“Ah-ha! So you _do_ watch me while I sleep?”

“No...”

“I _knew_ it! You bastard, you _always_ denied it but I bloody knew it. I could smell you, you know,” John told him, squeezing him close and reaching to poke at Sherlock’s neck, then his hair, winding another curl around his finger, just for the fun of it. He couldn’t stop touching him. “The scents of your overly priced cologne and shampoo are pretty hard not to notice sometimes. _Especially_ when it’s lingering in my own bedroom.”

Sherlock bit into his sandwich in reply and smiled with full cheeks, “You watch over _me_ when I sleep on the sofa. And you often peek in to check on me when I’m in bed. What’s the difference?”

“You _know_ the difference, Sherlock.”

“It’s for the same reasons.”

“No it’s not,” John argued. “I check on you to make sure you haven’t died in your bloody sleep or taken something you shouldn’t have or curled up beside some treacherous experiment.” Stroking away a few errant crumbs from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, John lifted a pointed eyebrow and continued. “ _You_ , however, come into my room and watch me sleep because you’re bored and you like to loom.”

Sherlock scoffed, “I can loom over you at _any_ time, I don’t need the cover of darkness to do so,” he said.

“Go on then, why _do_ you watch me sleep?”

“...There are many purposes to my actions,” Sherlock retorted.

“Pick _one_.”

Sherlock drew his eyes down to the table surface, “To prove to myself, without any doubt, that you are still _here_ ,” he said slow and gentle. “That you haven’t just...had enough of me and left without a word.”

John frowned, “Why would I do that?”

“You’d not be the first, if you did,” Sherlock said snappily. John felt his heart cramp with compassion and searched Sherlock’s profile. It wasn’t really difficult to believe, not many people understood Sherlock, or wanted to understand him. They expected him to fall in line and follow the rules, spoken and unspoken alike, without complaint, but that just wasn’t him. Sherlock was an intelligent man, yet only with certain aspects, not everything and anything there was. Some things evaded his reach, sometimes by choice, but not always. John watched him finish the rest of his food, drink the milk in silence, and then eyed Sherlock’s clenching jaw when John covered the man’s free hand, stroking his wrist. “I know it’s crossed your mind. It would be _easy_. You don’t have many things to pack. You could reach the end of your patience with me and just--”

“ _No_ ,” John interrupted sternly. “Sorry to say this, Sherlock, but you’re stuck with me. No matter how arrogant, rude, inconsiderate, moody, and insulting you are. - There are times I have, and _will_ , want to strangle you, but I won’t leave you because of it. I put up with you just as much as you put up with me. I _know_ I have my issues as well. No one is perfect, it’s what makes the world interesting--”

Sherlock lifted his gaze intensely, “Sleep with me.”

Taken completely by surprise by the abrupt change in subject, and the subject matter itself, John could only stammer and stare, “Uh...”

“Not like _that_ ,” Sherlock grumbled. “ _Proper sleep_. In either bed, I don’t care.” A blush was raising on his cheeks, lining the arch of his ridiculous cheekbones. “It doesn’t have to be every night. I prefer my privacy and solitude at certain times, just as much as you do.”

“Of course,” John agreed, unable to resist the temptation to follow and touch the pink tinge as it spread, appearing like magic up Sherlock’s long neck. “Angel face.” Sherlock whined in frustration and stood up, moving his plate and glass to the sink. John grinned and followed, turning him around for his hand.

“What now?”

“Let’s nap,” John suggested.

“Let’s _not_.”

“I want to give you the affection you _clearly_ yearn for and _definitely_ deserve. Right now,” John told him, leading him out of the kitchen, onto the landing, and then up the stairs. At Sherlock’s questioning furrowed brow, John shrugged and squeezed his long fingers. “A bit more privacy in my room. Only you trespass in there.”

“ _Wrong_ ,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, keeping close to John’s back, so close, in fact, that John’s heels brushed the man’s legs with each step.

“My past girlfriends don’t count, Sherlock,” John sighed, opening the bedroom door and trying not to think too hard about the past, about what they had missed, and how many moments he’d wasted by choosing the wrong person to spend his time with. “You know, considering I invited them in. Willingly.” Directing Sherlock to the bed, which he stood beside tersely, John went to his window and drew one of the curtains, subduing the light.

“But not any longer?” Sherlock asked.

“I thought you didn’t ask inane questions?”

“Just making sure.”

“You normally don’t have to--”

“ _John._ ”

Wandering back over, John gathered Sherlock near and pushed him down onto the bed, shuffling them both to the middle, pretending not to notice when they banged knees and Sherlock almost nutted him in the chin, “You should know, Sherlock, that when I’m with someone, there is _no one_ else.”

“Until another comes along, no,” Sherlock sniped, face peevish.

“Would you _stop_ that?” John countered just as brusquely, tugging Sherlock close with one arm wrapped securely around his waist. “Do you want this, with _me_ , or...or not?”

Sherlock nodded jerkily and pushed his forehead and nose against John’s own, “Yes,” he grumbled.

“What a confidence boost,” John drawled sardonically, carding a hand through Sherlock’s hair, obsessed with the permission to do so and how right it felt. Finding Sherlock’s ear amongst the curls, John caressed the still pinked skin in apology and then cupped his jaw, chest tight with sharp prickles of emotion. “Anyway, I’ve _always_ picked you. I never strayed from those I was involved with, not in the unfaithful sense, but I _did_ choose you over them when you needed me. So, now...if I’m _with_ you then I’m _entirely_ with you.”

“...Why haven’t you kissed me?” Sherlock whispered in the small space between them, his words colliding with John’s face.

“...Do you want me to--?”

“ _Obviously_.”

Heat rushed up, encasing John’s body and tingling across his scalp, and John was suddenly grateful that they were so close, “Right. Okay,” he breathed, clearing his throat. “I can do that.”

“ _Do it_ then.”

“I’m—Just _hang on_ a second, I’m getting there. _Don’t_ rush me.”

“You have had plenty of time to do it.”

“I didn’t think I should, I mean, yes, _okay_ , I thought I should, because you...you know...you kissed me but...I didn’t think...”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in amusement, “Yes, I know you didn’t, you regularly don’t, it’s _infuriating_.”

“Oh _please_ , if anyone is infuriating, it’s _you_!”

Huffing a short laugh, Sherlock squashed the tips of their noses together, “I never thought you’d back out of an opportunity to snog a willing participant.”

“ _Snogging_ now?” John asked, feeling the collecting heat more intensely at the mere implication. He stroked the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw bone and then moved to cup the back of his head, happy to delve back into the thick curls there. “One kiss, then a nap.”

“Two kisses, then a _possible_ nap,” Sherlock replied. “You can hold me and I may or may not sleep.”

“You _need_ to sleep. I don’t even know when the last time you did,” John told him sternly, but nodded and ignored the loud thumping of his own heart, the swoop of his stomach, the twist of his gut, and the unmistakable fizz of building arousal. There was no question about anything, at all. Slightly embarrassed and unsure, John shifted his body a few inches closer, getting a better grip on Sherlock’s body and entangling their legs. “All right. Two then...seeing as you kissed me twice.”

“Two,” Sherlock agreed, eyes already half closed with anticipation, the flush on his cheeks darker.

John took a deep, steadying breath, and tilted his head to nose first at Sherlock’s cheek, before he tipped his chin forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. He did it gently, as gentle and brief as Sherlock’s first kiss had been, trying to convey the same amount of feeling behind it. Sherlock responded with a wavering sigh and pushed into the next kiss, gripping at John’s sides. The touch and the feel of his parting lips, turned the planned plain second kiss into something more passionate and John clasped Sherlock’s nape to allow its progression. It churned a roar of deafening, overwhelming, delight in him and he had to quickly disconnect their mouths.

“ _Three_ ,” Sherlock breathed, lips lasciviously wet as he strained for more, colliding with John’s cheek instead when John turned his head to deny him. He whined and scowled, winding his arms about John’s waist. “ _John_...three...”

“It’s…uh...going a bit fast, don’t you think?” John husked.

“ _No_. It’s not.”

John dodged another attempt at a kiss and laughed, “We only just started this--”

“Don’t be a prude,” Sherlock interrupted, pressing into the base of John’s neck with a hefty sigh of moody defeat.

“It’s not about being a ‘prude,’ Sherlock. I just...I don’t want to rush this. Means a bit more than...what I’ve had before,” John said, gritting his teeth when Sherlock began dropping feather-light kisses along the line of his collarbone that slowly descended into sampling flicks of his tongue. Sherlock then tightened his arms, pushed against him with a hot exhale and a low sound in his chest, and aligned their hips. “ _Sherlock_. - This is _new_ and you’re...you’re...”

“Throwing myself at you.”

“ _Yeah_! Yes, exactly! And, really, we don’t have to head straight into... _this_ sort of thing just yet. We should--”

Sherlock growled, “I _want_ ‘this sort of thing.’”

“You said before that it wasn’t what you _meant_!-- Listen to me, what we have now isn’t about... _just_ the physical though, is it? There’s more to this. _Much_ more. Being physical and, um, sexually intimate isn’t the be-all and end-all to our...to _this_. There are more _important_ things,” John tried, wondering if he should be doing more to actively stop Sherlock. “Think of it like rushing dessert. It’s better to...to savour each bite, right? So...so it’s not over too quickly and we’re left...regretful and...uh...”

“We could just have _more_ dessert,” Sherlock said around the end of John’s clavicle, which he sucked on lightly, then nipped. “I _like_ dessert. Have quite the sweet tooth. Isn’t that what you keep telling me? So, I can have _several_ helpings without tiring of it.”

“ _Oh God_ ,” John chuckled. “Can’t we just cuddle and nap?”

“Yes. Of course. _Afterwards_.”

“Since when were you so... _keen_? You all but look down your nose at--”

“We don’t have to do much,” Sherlock bargained, cutting John off and drawing him half on top of Sherlock’s overly warm body, as he angled to press up the rigid and eagerly twitching length of his rather prominent erection. “I can orgasm from the feel and smell of you, alone.”

John choked on a snort of disbelief and gaped at one of his bedroom walls as if it might, somehow, hold the answer, shaking with unbridled lust, “ _What_?”

Nuzzling into the hollow of John’s suprasternal notch, Sherlock rewrapped his long arms higher up his torso and hummed gutturally when he undulated to rub up against John’s own thickening cock, “Happened _several_ times since I’ve known you.”

“ _When_?” John asked before clenching his eyes closed, rapidly losing the will to fight him. “ _No_! Wait, _don’t_ answer that.” After another hum and buck of Sherlock’s hips, John let out a gusty sigh and grasped the man’s shoulder blades, rocking back in reply.

Moaning quietly, Sherlock tipped his head, nudging the edge of John’s chin with a brief kiss and arching an eyebrow when John looked at him, “Would you like me to beg?”

“...You’d do that?” John asked instead of extracting himself like he should be doing and putting an end to it.

“I’d even roll over,” Sherlock retorted suggestively with a brazen flashing grin.

“Hussy.”

“And I’m not wearing any underwear, so it would be better if--”

“I _knew_ it,” John cut him off with a startled exclamation. “I always suspected you didn’t wear underwear under those skin tight trousers.”

Sherlock rocked up with a hum and dropped his head back when John couldn’t help but give an answering thrust, “Kiss me,” he pleaded. “ _Please_. John. _Kiss me_.”

“No,” John replied, abruptly high on both the lust and the control he held over the begging detective. “I think I’ll just snuggle up with you and drop off.” Getting a better grasp on Sherlock, John shifted, shuffled, and then abruptly rolled Sherlock over until his back was against his chest, long legs tangling with the sheets as he tried to fight the movement with a whinging huff. “There. That’s better.”

“I cannot _believe_ you are denying me this. That you’re--”

“It’s _not_ a no,” John reminded him and bit back on a gasping groan when Sherlock wiggled backward, yanking John’s hand over his side to press between his legs. “ _Sherlock_.” John withdrew his arm strongly, sliding his hand to Sherlock’s chest instead. “I guarantee that you’ll thank me for this later. - We _shouldn’t_ rush this. _I_ don’t want to rush this with you.”

“You’d not deny those _women_ \--”

“You’re not them. You...mean _more_ to me, all right? Now _stop_ , just relax and lie with me,” John said quietly, stroking over where he could feel Sherlock’s relentlessly beating heart. Turning his head, John found the warm skin and tickling curls at the side and back of Sherlock’s neck. John inhaled deeply and placed a lingering kiss there, content to breathe Sherlock in and concentrate on where they were pressed together. “I like this. Being close to you.”

“I’d rather you be closer,” Sherlock replied after a few shuddering breaths, as his hips ticked forward, “preferably connected as intimately as two people can be...”

John sniffed at the scent hidden behind Sherlock’s elegant ear, “ _Later,_ ” he whispered, leaving another lingering kiss. Each stroke of John’s hand on Sherlock’s chest and touch of John’s lips to his neck, made him squirm and pant, the heat from his skin burning through the material of his shirt. It didn’t take long for John to realise that Sherlock was rocking very slightly within his arms in increasing speed and even less time to find the movements very, very telling. “Sherlock...are you--?”

With a choking groan, Sherlock arched, bucked, and gripped hold of John’s forearm and hand, dragging John’s flexing fingers over a straining nipple, “ _Yes_ ,” he grunted halfway through the obvious climax.

John held him through it and then shifted to look down at the ruined trousers, feeling both incredibly aroused by the sight and strangely impressed, “You need to learn a bit of self control,” he said at last, arching his eyebrow at the sideways, lidded look Sherlock was giving him as he calmed down from his orgasm high. “But for now, you’ll lie in your sodden trousers until our nap is over. Perhaps that’ll teach you a thing or two— _God_ you were like an overly zealous, hyped up teenager.”

“I might actually nap now, at least,” Sherlock murmured gruffly, smiling when John chuckled in agreement. “And by the time it’s done, I’ll be up for another round. - Though ideally one that involves more from you. Fill me up with dessert--”

Bursting out into laughter, John held Sherlock tighter and pressed them a bit closer, resting his laughing mouth against Sherlock’s cheek, “ _Oh my God_ —You’re _unbelievable._ ”

“Thank you,” Sherlock preened and turned his head to rest his broad grin alongside John’s own.

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the ending. I can't end things.
> 
> Feedback fuels me...hopefully.
> 
>  
> 
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)


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